


Now Showing

by ficbear



Series: Gunsel [17]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Belts, Clothed Male Naked Male, Dom/sub, Eavesdropping, Face Slapping, Loud Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Money, Older Man/Younger Man, Organized Crime, Polyamory, Rentboys, Roleplay, Rope Bondage, Rough Sex, Whipping, singers - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 04:37:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficbear/pseuds/ficbear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You want some company?" I say, toying with my belt buckle. I can feel his eyes on me, running over the leather of my jacket, the scuffed denim of my jeans, the pomade in my hair. It feels like his hands are already on me, and if I'm getting this overheated just from the way he looks at me, it's going to take a lot of self-control to keep it professional tonight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now Showing

I hear it before I've even opened the door. Muffled little yelps, grunts of exertion, and loud stupid laughter, all mingled together. I'm shaking my head as I push the door open, wondering how Davis and his idiot friend managed to find themselves some trouble in the twenty minutes it took me and Joe to wrap this visit up. When I glance at Joe he's got a face like thunder, and that expression only gets darker when we step out onto the street, to where Davis and Mack should be waiting in the car. Instead they're on the pavement, standing with their backs to us, stooped over and whaling on someone like they're trying to smear him all over the paintwork.

"What're you two playing at?" Joe barks, and the pair of them freeze like he just yanked their choke-chains.

"Nothing," Mack says, stepping back and turning around with his hands still balled up into fists.

"Teaching this squirt a lesson, that's all." Davis sounds like he's trying to play it casual, but you can see in his eyes that he knows he's out of line. "Caught him trying to take off with the car, so we'd got to give him what for, hadn't we?"

As he talks, Davis steps back out of the way, and now I can see who they've been whaling on. A young guy, probably not much more than twenty, with dishevelled hair and angry eyes and scowling, bloodied lips. He's short and wiry, and I can see exactly how lean he is on account of how all he's wearing is a flimsy little t-shirt and jeans. It's cold enough out here tonight that I'm shivering inside my suit and coat, but this kid looks like he isn't even feeling it. He looks like he's on fire.

"Oh, he tried to steal it while you were sitting right there in the driver's seat, did he?" Joe gives a rough, nasty laugh. "Brave kid."

"Well, no, we were across the road in the shop," Davis says, putting his hands up in front of him. "We just went to get some cigarettes, Joe—"

"Takes two of you to do that, does it?" Joe grabs Davis by the tie and shoves him up against the side of the car, hard enough to knock a yelp out of him. "Just like it takes two of you to beat up one scrawny kid?"

"Joe, look," Mack starts saying, but Joe turns around and shoves him back with his free hand before the guy can get another word out.

"Shut it, both of you." Joe orders, and they clam right up like he's put a hand over their mouths. "I'll deal with you two later."

He lets go of Davis, and the two of them edge away until they're almost flush to the wall, like maybe if they're out of arm's reach he'll forget about them altogether. And you know, I reckon he has, at least for the moment, because he comes up close and stands over the kid with the kind of nasty smile he usually throws at me.

"First," he says, letting that smile get a bit sharper, "I'm going to deal with you."

The boy just shoves his hands in his pockets, tips his head back and stares up at Joe without flinching, like he hasn't noticed he's a head shorter and a few stones lighter than the guy he's staring down. There's a few moments of silence, a few moments where if I didn't know Joe better I'd think he was deciding exactly how to take this kid apart. The boy must be thinking his number's up, but if he's scared he's keeping a tight lid on it. Then Joe grabs hold of his shoulder, and just for a moment I see something glint in the kid's eyes. A bit of fear, sure, but that's not all. There's something else underneath it, something bright and hot. Maybe I'm off-track, maybe I'm just seeing too much of myself in this kid, but I reckon he's enjoying this.

"Go ahead," the boy says, with just the slightest crack in his voice. "I ain't scared of you."

Joe gives another one of those rough laughs and lets go of his shoulder. "You got a job, kid?"

The boy scowls at Joe and stands up a bit taller. "I do alright."

I can't help laughing. "He's not asking about the state of your finances. He means, are you working for anyone round here?"

"Oh." the boy says, glancing across at me, and when I throw him a leering smile, his eyes get a bit wider. " _Oh_." Then he stands up a bit straighter and turns back to Joe with a cocky smile on his lips, like all this is run of the mill for him. "Nah, I'm not working for anybody. Free as a bird, I am."

"Get in," Joe says, jabbing his thumb toward the back seat of the car.

The kid looks from Joe to the car and back again, not saying a word. At his age, I'd have been in there without a second thought, but this boy makes us stand and wait a few seconds while he makes up his mind. Either he's got more sense than you'd expect, or he just wants to keep us waiting for the fun of it. In any case, by the time he smirks and says "Alright," I'm itching to grab him by the collar and shove him into the car myself.

"You," Joe says, turning to me with one of those looks that says if I give him any lip right now I'll be joining Davis and his buddy in the doghouse. "Get in the front, you're driving."

I'm not going to push my luck, so I nod and get into the driver's seat, and it's only once I've started the engine that Davis and Mack seem to realise what's going on.

"Hey, what about us, Joe?" Davis says, as Joe gets into the back seat, next to the kid.

"Yeah," Mack pipes up like a whiny little echo. "What about us?"

"You two can make your own way back."

As we pull away, the kid gives a big raucous laugh like this is the most fun he's had all week, and I can see him in the mirror, twisting around so he can get a good look out the back window.

"Ha! Look at those two," he says, glancing back at Joe with a grin. "What a couple of chumps."

"Quiet down." Joe barks, and I have to stifle a laugh myself, because for once it's not me who's getting the brunt of that temper.

"You know," I say, smirking at Joe in the mirror, "if he needs breaking in, I've got some time on my hands."

"That's where you're wrong," Joe laughs, and it's a mean enough laugh to give me a good idea of what's coming next. "You're going away for the weekend."

"Oh, am I?" I keep my eyes on the road. "Anywhere nice?"

"You're taking a little trip west, to the coast," Joe says. "It'll almost be like a little holiday for you."

"Oh yeah, I'm sure I'll get plenty of rest." I try to keep my tone light, like I don't really care either way, but it's a struggle. There's only one place on the west coast that we've got ties to, and I can think of two good reasons to jump at the chance to take a trip over there. Two very good reasons.

"Sure you will." Joe laughs again, low and nasty and rough. "More than this kid'll get, anyway."

 

* * *

 

"Do you know why we're lending you out to take care of this?" Miller stirs his tea and looks up at me with a smile. "Why Mr Middleton isn't just sending one of his own boys to provide the entertainment?"

"Sure," I say, shrugging. "The old man likes sharing me with his friends, always has."

"Well, that's certainly true, but it's not the whole story." Miller gives a soft little laugh. "This time you're being sent over as a gesture of trust. Uncle Jack wants to strengthen the bonds we've established with Mr Middleton's organisation, and you're part of the first phase."

"Am I?" I drink the last bit of my coffee and push the empty cup at Miller on the off-chance he'll buy me another.

"Yes," Miller says, not even looking at the cup. "And you're not the only one. There are a dozen or so of our people all going across on similar jobs—simple things, nothing very challenging—and in turn, Mr Middleton will be sending his own staff across to us."

"Sounds big."

"Oh, it is," he says, steepling his fingers and fixing me with a cool stare. "If any of you perform less than satisfactorily, the whole strategy will be set back, and that…" Miller trails off, and those golden lips curl into a sharp little smile. "That would pose a problem for Uncle Jack's long-term plans."

"Alright, alright, I get the message: be a good boy, do a good job, make a good impression." I smirk at him, and stand up. "Anyway, hadn't we better get out on the platform? I'm not letting you make me miss my train again."

"Enjoy your trip," Miller says, standing up and putting a hand on the small of my back, just firm enough to send a shiver through me. "I know you'll put on a performance to make Uncle Jack proud."

I can't help laughing at that, and I'm still smiling to myself when I'm on the train, stretching out on one of the big first class seats and wondering what Miller's going to be up to tonight while I'm out of town. It'll be just the three of them, just him and the boss and Joe, nice and cosy. They'll be out at one of the old man's joints, maybe that new club. Miller'll be playing the charming nephew, laying it on thick the way he always does in public, all _please_ and _thank you_ and _yes, Uncle Jack_. He'll behave himself perfectly, but as it gets nearer and nearer to closing time, he'll start to get more and more impatient for what he knows is coming to him. You wouldn't notice it unless you'd spent a long time watching him. You'd think those sunny smiles of his were just as light as ever, just as airy and carefree, but you'd be wrong. The longer they keep him out there in public, the thirstier he gets for it, and as much as he tries to keep his manners spotless, I can tell when Miller's really starting to suffer. His voice gets tauter and harder. His smiles are hotter and sharper. His eyes keep straying to the boss's hands, flicking down to them whenever he's not keeping himself in check, because all he can think about is how they're going to feel on him later, swinging down across his cheek, tightening around his throat, grabbing hold of his hips. By the time the old man and Joe take him home tonight, the golden boy will be starting to fray around the edges, and by the time either of them finally lays a finger on him, he'll be so grateful you'd be half-expecting tears of joy.

The thought of that keeps me occupied for the whole journey. Maybe I should thank Miller when I get back, for being so entertaining that he can keep me out of trouble without even being here. Maybe I should see about paying him back for that favour, once I'm back home. It's a nice idea, but I put it to one side for now. Tonight, the only thing I need in my head is the list of instructions I've had drilled into me. Right now, the only favours I need to be thinking about are the ones I'm going to be selling a couple of hours from now.

So, like a good boy, I get off the train and head straight for the café on the opposite platform, where one of Mr Middleton's guys should be waiting to collect me. I've got no idea who it'll be, but according to Miller I don't need to worry about spotting him, because he'll spot me. There isn't even the chance that someone might try to intercept me, Miller said, since this is such a trivial little soft job. I couldn't help trying to needle him, after all the song and dance he made about not messing this up. _So you're saying I don't have to check his credentials?_ I said, giving him a big, lewd smirk. _I can just wander off with the first guy that approaches me?_ And the golden boy just smiled at me and said, _Yes, just like old times_.

I'm still smiling at the thought when I turn the corner into the café, but as it happens, recognising Middleton's lackey isn't going to be a problem at all. I spot him as soon as I walk through the door, and he spots me. He doesn't get up, though. He waits for me to come to him, and the whole time he stares right at me, giving me the same hard look as he did the first time he laid eyes on me in the old man's office.

"You must have really upset your boss to get this job, Vic."

"Not really," he says, with a little smile. "Mr Middleton likes to give the occasional menial job to everyone who works for him. Keeps us humble, he says."

He stands up, and my eyes run down across the length of him, across the width of his frame, across all the slate-blue pinstripe and steel-grey silk he's wrapped up in, and back up again to those hard, dark eyes. All of a sudden the smart line I was gearing up to give him disappears, and I'm left standing there silent and open-mouthed like a fool. It takes me a couple of seconds to pull myself together, and by that time Vic's right next to me, taking hold of my arm, pulling me along like an unruly kid.

"Come on," he says, and maybe I'm imagining things, but I swear there's just a hint of a smile on his lips.

"Where are we headed?" I glance at him over my shoulder, trying to get a hold of myself, as he steers me out through the doors and onto the street. "Let me guess, I'm being put up in one of your hotels, so you can keep an eye on me."

"Even better," Vic says, with a grimace. "You're staying with me."

"You've got to put me up at your place?" I can't help laughing. "Now, that really _will_ be character-building."

He doesn't reply, so I guess that's all the conversation I'm getting out of him for now. We drive in silence, with me looking out of the window at the seafront and the big fancy houses, and him staring straight ahead like he'd enjoy nothing more right now than opening the passenger door and shoving me out into the gutter, but when we turn off the main road and away from the lights and amusements, I just can't keep my mouth shut.

"Don't you live in one of these?" I say, pointing at the big house we've just passed. "I thought you'd have one of those penthouse places, with a nice sea view and a great big price tag."

"Not me," Vic says, with something halfway between a grunt and a laugh. "If you want the tourist treatment, go and knock on Ray's door."

"I might do that." I grin at him, and he frowns at me, and that just makes me want to bait him even more. "After tonight's taken care of, I mean. Business before pleasure, I always say."

 

* * *

 

Vic said as long as I was waiting on the right street corner at the right time, I could do whatever I fancied with the start of the evening, but I sat through Lemaire's show anyway. I'd already seen a picture of him, but I wanted to get a good look at him in the flesh before I start _my_ act, so I spent a bit of my advance on a front-row ticket. And there were plenty of them left to buy, I can tell you. The auditorium was barely half-full, just me and a scattering of old couples who were probably out on their first dates the last time this guy's songs were on the radio. Well, maybe Laurence Lemaire's on his way out, maybe he doesn't pull crowds like he used to, but you wouldn't know it to watch him. The minute he walked on stage, I forgot all about the empty seats around me, and when he started to sing, I forgot about the cheap peeling posters outside and the half-price programmes in the foyer. He almost seemed to glitter under the spotlight, with his suit shimmering red and gold like a sunset, with the grey in his hair gleaming like polished silver, with his rings and cufflinks sparkling as he moved. He looked like he owned the place, and I watched him like one of his fans, smitten and star-struck.

If I hadn't been paid to be here, I'd have been waiting at the stage door as soon as he finished his act. As it as, I was out the door and heading to that street corner before the curtain was halfway down, but all that eagerness bought me was about ten minutes more standing out in the cold than strictly necessary. At least I'll be authentically grateful when Lemaire's car finally shows up and I can get into the warm. Why he had to pick the middle of January to go for a street pickup, I don't know. The wind's biting enough that right now I'd be tempted to get in the first car that pulled up, Lemaire or otherwise, but luckily for me I won't even have the opportunity to be tempted. They've got me stood on a quiet corner round the back of the auditorium, where the chances of me getting a visit from anyone but Lemaire are pretty slim. I should be grateful, really. The last thing I want is a copper spotting me, or some pushy guy deciding he wants to hang around trying to talk me into it and getting in the way while I'm trying to work, but somehow I don't feel particularly thankful. Standing here shivering while Lemaire's probably in his dressing room, having one last drink before he comes to pick me up, I'm starting to feel as bitter as the chill in the air.

When the car comes around the corner, I can't help being a bit disappointed. I was expecting something vintage, the kind he might have bought years ago with the profits off one of his hits. Instead it's a big modern thing, sleek and dark grey, with a hard-faced chauffeur in the front, and Lemaire in the back. I'm a bit disappointed, sure, but with him looking at me through the tinted windows, smiling slightly like he's already planning exactly what he's going to do to me, that disappointment doesn't last long.

Just like they told me in the briefing, I don't wait for him to beckon me. When Lemaire rolls down the window, I go across and lean over against the side of the car, close enough to let him get a good look at me. He's had my picture, just like I've had his, but he spends a few seconds looking me over anyway, like he's not quite sure whether I'm up to scratch. I look him over right back. He's dressed a little quieter now, in a midnight blue velvet suit and an open-necked silk shirt, which I guess must count as casual for him. He's swapped the rings and cufflinks out for smaller ones, with only a handful of tiny little gems in them, but he still glitters enough to dazzle me into almost forgetting my lines.

"You want some company?" I say, toying with my belt buckle. I can feel his eyes on me, running over the leather of my jacket, the scuffed denim of my jeans, the pomade in my hair. It feels like his hands are already on me, and if I'm getting this overheated just from the way he looks at me, it's going to take a lot of self-control to keep it professional tonight.

Lemaire chuckles quietly and opens the door. "Get in."

Me and Miller went over the way this is going to go down half a dozen times, to make sure it stuck, but I still can't help thinking about all the different ways I could go off-script. I sit in the back next to Lemaire, and I think about how I could lean across and rest a hand on his lap, trying to coax him into getting started early. I watch the chauffeur glancing back in the mirror, and I think about asking Lemaire if maybe he'd like to see how I'd handle both of them at once. When we pull up outside the hotel, I follow Lemaire into the lobby, past the desk clerks that look politely right through me, and into the big fancy lift, and I think about dropping to my knees and offering him my mouth then and there. I think about it, I think about it long and hard, but that's as far as it goes. I keep my head down and my mouth shut like a good boy, all the way up to his suite, until the door's closed behind us and it's just me and him.

Now, if I was really the random pickup I'm supposed to be, right now I'd be thinking I was in for a quiet night. Just the basics, maybe a bit of hearts and flowers stuff, nothing too strenuous. I'd be expecting an easy time, and I'd be in for a shock. Then again, if I was a random pickup, it'd be fifty-fifty whether I bolted the minute he started to get rough. This way he gets a sure thing, a boy who can take a good beating and still want more, and I get to start tonight off knowing exactly how to push his buttons and exactly what I'm going to get for my trouble.

"So," I say, coming up close and running my hand over one of those velvet lapels, "where d'you want me?"

He grabs hold of my wrist, too quick for me to jerk my hand away even if I wanted to, and before I know it he's got my arm twisted up behind my back. "On your knees," he says, wrenching it up a bit higher. "Where you belong."

He lets go of my arm and shoves me forward, hard enough to make me stumble. I play up the staggering and drop to my knees, hitting the carpet so heavily they must have heard it downstairs.

"Hey, if you wanted me down here, all you had to do was ask." I watch him walk around to stand in front of me, and I look up at him with a smirk. "Manners don't cost anything, you know."

I'm not expecting a reply, and I don't get one. He just starts taking off those rings, nice and slow, one by one, while I keep running my mouth.

"But if you want to get tough, I can do tough. Yeah, you don't want a nice boy tonight, do you? You want me to fight back, I'll fight back, no problem. But don't worry," I laugh, letting that smirk get a bit sharper, "on account of your age, I'll take it easy on y—"

The back of his hand comes down across my cheek and cuts me off, right on cue. It's the kind of vicious slap that makes my face burn and my ears ring, the kind that makes my whole body tense up no matter how much I try to relax. The kind I'd do anything to earn a second helping of.

So I roll my eyes and laugh. "Just getting warmed up, are you?"

He hits me again, with his palm this time, and this one's just as hard as the first. Both my cheekbones are throbbing already, and he's barely touched me. If Lemaire really was just some random guy who'd picked me up, I'd be halfway to begging him to fuck me right now. I'd be trying my best to goad him into nailing me as viciously as he's smacking me around, but I know we're not there yet. I've got a long night ahead of me first.

"Is that all you've got?" I sneer up at him. "My old man hits harder than that."

This time he belts me so hard I end up sprawled on the floor beside him, curled on my side getting friendly with the carpet. This time it knocks a moan out of me, and I don't hold it back. I just push myself back up to my knees, and give him another smirk.

"More like it," I say, trying not to tense up too much, trying to look as casual as I sound. "I almost felt that."

He grabs a handful of my hair and yanks my head back, fast and sharp. I can't help groaning in the back of my throat. With Lemaire looking down at me like I'm nothing, with that hand twisting my hair til it feels like it's ripping right out, it's a wonder I'm still sticking to the script at all. I want to reach out and see whether this is getting him as hard as it's getting me. I want to beg for his cock, for him to fuck my mouth, even just for a minute. Instead I look up at him and raise an eyebrow.

"This is extra, you know."

"Oh, you'll be compensated adequately," Lemaire says, yanking my head back a bit harder, "once I've had my money's worth out of you."

"Why don't you let me get started, then? Lie back and let me do the—"

He cuts me off with another backhand, vicious enough that I'd be on the floor again if it wasn't for his grip on my hair. Another one of those groans wells up inside me, and the way he looks at me, you'd think I'd snapped and begged out loud. Then he lets go of me, takes out his handkerchief and wipes his hands off, like he's gotten himself filthy even touching me. The thought of that's like a slap in the face all on its own, and it gets me just as overheated. The way this stuff works on me, it's like clockwork. Inside I'm laughing at myself, as I kneel there and watch him, as I bite my lip to keep from saying what we both know's right there on the tip of my tongue.

"Undress." he orders, putting the handkerchief away.

He doesn't want a drawn-out striptease, I know that, but I can't help wanting to string it out a bit, just to shorten his fuse. He watches me take off my jacket and t-shirt, not smiling at all, just staring at me with cold eyes. The way he looks at me, I don't think he needs any help shortening that fuse. He looks like he can't decide whether he'd rather beat me or throw me out on my ear, and by the time I've kicked off my boots and jeans, his expression's so frosty I feel like I'm back on that freezing street corner again. Now he can see how turned on all this is getting me, now there's no pretending I'm just in it for the money, and if he looked like he wanted to take me apart before, now he looks like he wants to rip me to shreds.

"Bend over the table."

I smile like he's just made my day. "Sure."

Once I'm in position, once my chest's pressed flat to the top of the table and my legs are spread wide like I really _do_ think I'm about to get the fucking I've been wanting all night, I glance back over my shoulder at Lemaire and throw him a smirk. "You're paying for this, so why don't you hurry up and enjoy it?"

I know what's coming next, but still, the sight of Lemaire unthreading that glossy leather belt from his trousers, it's enough to give me the shivers.

"I intend to," Lemaire says, with a quiet, crisp laugh. When he raises his arm, I find myself digging my nails into the edge of the table, holding my breath, tensing up no matter how much I tell myself to relax. When he swings the belt down right across my ass, lightly so it only stings a little, I find myself thinking maybe this isn't going to be that hard after all. Sure, I know this is only the warm-up, but maybe I really am tough enough to take it all with no complaints. And then Lemaire swings the belt again, and again, harder and harder, and he keeps on going, keeps on slowly turning up the volume on those strokes, until I've lost count and I'm biting down on my lip to keep quiet. The belt feels like it's biting into me with boiling-hot teeth, heavy and hard enough now that I can't help arching up off the table when it hits me.

"Keep still." he orders, bringing the belt down across the backs of my thighs.

And I wish I could, I really do. But he can give as many orders as he likes, and I still won't be able to stop flinching and jumping every time the belt hits me. It's the pain of the beating, sure, but it's the excitement as well. I'm twitchy and wound up like he's been teasing me all night, and there's no way I can keep still, not now. I was scuppered before I even started.

"I told you to keep still." Lemaire says, moving around to the other side of me. "If you can't follow a simple command, perhaps you won't be paid after all."

I know it's just a line. I know the money for this is already sitting happily in my wallet, along with the rest of this week's pay. I _know_ , but Lemaire still manages to wind me up enough that it's a real scowl on my face and real anger in my voice when I reply.

"Oh yeah?" I sneer. "I didn't peg you as a cheapskate, but maybe you can't pay your way. Maybe those fancy clothes are all you've got. Maybe you're just a worn-out nobody—"

The belt swings down across my back, hard enough to drive another yelp out of me, and before I can catch my breath he swings it again, and again, until the strokes start to blur into one, until I'm howling in pain and snarling in anger, writhing against the table and clawing at the edge of it. When he finally stops, I feel like I can't breathe, let alone talk. I feel like I can barely think.

"You can't control yourself at all, can you?" Lemaire chuckles.

I can't answer. I just lie there, trying to put the words together to tell him exactly what I think of him.

"No," he says, putting the belt down and opening the drawer beside him. "You simply don't have the fortitude to endure this unaided."

I knew he was going to play it like this, I knew all along, but no matter how much I keep reminding myself, I can't stop reacting to every little barb Lemaire throws at me. I can't stop the indignation flaring up every time he insults me, making me see red even as it's turning me on. I'm supposed to be playing a role here, but somehow I feel like I'm the one being played. When he grabs hold of my wrist and starts winding the rope around it, I want to pull my hand away, I want to tell him to go to hell, I want to make him hold me down with his bare hands, to make him break me, to kick and fight and show him exactly how much fortitude I've got when the gloves are off. I want to let loose the way I would with the boss or Joe, and when that little pang of homesickness stabs at me, that just makes me angrier.

"Oh, sure, this is all for my benefit." I scoff, tugging against the ropes as soon as they're tied. Both my wrists are fixed tight to the corners of the table, and with how heavy the thing is, these ropes might as well be iron chains. I'm going nowhere, no matter how much I struggle. No matter how much he hurts me. I couldn't get away from him now if I tried. He could do anything he wanted to me now, anything at all, and the thought of that's got me squirming against the table before he's even picked up the belt again.

"Perhaps not," Lemaire says, stroking a hand down over the raw skin of my ass, firm enough to make me groan. "But evidently you're enjoying yourself regardless."

I hiss out a couple of choice words, and Lemaire just laughs. Then he swings the belt down across my thighs again, and I can't help crying out. The leather bites into my skin so much sharper, so much harder than anything he's given me so far, that if it wasn't for the rope I'd be bucking up off the table and twisting to get out of the way of the next stroke. But I'm stuck fast. He brings the belt down again and again, vicious and heavy and fast, covering my shoulder blades and my ass and my thighs with wave after wave of seething-hot pain, and there's nothing I can do but lie here and take it, tugging at the ropes and cursing him with every breath that shudders out of me. My arms hurt from struggling, my wrists burn where the rope's scratched them, and every inch of skin his belt's touched feels like it's on fire, like he's poured boiling oil on every single nerve. When he finally stops, I sag down against the table and press my cheek to the wood, wanting the coldness of it against my skin, as if that's going to outweigh even an ounce of the pain throbbing through me.

"I thought you'd have broken by now," Lemaire says, grabbing hold of my ass and squeezing it tight in his hand. "Perhaps you're more durable than I expected."

It's all in the plan, all in the script, but it still riles me up so bad I can't help snarling at him. "Let me out of these ropes and I'll show you how durable I am."

He just laughs and lets go of my ass, and then the belt hits me again, right across the shoulder blades, hard enough that I'm howling in pain and trying to wrench myself out of the way of it before I know what I'm doing. That just seems to urge him on. He keeps up a steady pace, swinging the belt down across my back and my ass and my thighs, over and over, so that not a single bit of me gets the luxury of recovering for long. He keeps me on the edge of folding, on the edge of begging him to stop, for so long that I feel like I've been tied to this table forever, like the taste of that leather biting into me is all I've ever felt, like there's nothing in the world for me right now except pain and fury. Then he stops again, and I lie there for a moment, just trying to breathe, trying to get it together enough not to miss my cue.

"What's—" I start to say, but the words catch in my throat, and I have to take a couple of breaths before I try again. "What's the matter, you getting tired already?"

"You're close to your limit, anyone could see that." Lemaire says, coming up behind me, pressing up close, letting me feel the hardness of his cock jutting against my ass. Every time he moves, every time he grinds against me, the cloth of his suit scrapes against my raw skin, stinging like that velvet's turned to sandpaper. I don't know whether I want to get away or push back against him, but either way I can't help squirming underneath him, and that just makes him laugh. "A kinder man would stop now, and let you retain a little dignity."

Then he steps back, and when I look over my shoulder at him, he's running that belt through his fingers and smiling down at me, ice-cold and hard and merciless. "But I'm afraid kindness isn't one of my virtues."

The way he looks at me, it lights me up like oil on a fire, and before I know it I'm twisting against the ropes, gritting my teeth, snarling in frustration. "Go to hell, you old ba—"

The belt cuts me off, snapping hard and sharp across my shoulders, and the words twist into a yelp of pain, and the yelp stretches into a long ragged howl as he keeps on beating me, as the leather bites into my skin again and again, and every stroke gets me a little closer to begging for it, to giving in and begging him to put the belt down and fuck me. I want to taunt him, I want to goad him into putting me in my place with his cock instead of his belt, I want to tell him he'll have to break me inside and out before I give up, but I can't find the words. All I can do is writhe underneath the blows of that belt, twisting and groaning, crying out like an animal until my throat's as raw as my back and my muscles are screaming from all the struggling, until the hunger inside me is blazing up as hot as the pain throbbing through my skin, until there's nothing in my head except the need to be fucked, and when Lemaire finally throws the belt aside and grabs hold of my waist, the moan it forces out of me is so pathetic it doesn't even sound like me. It sounds a million miles away, and the cold touch of him lubing me up feels just as far, and it's only when I can feel the heat of his cock sliding against the cleft of my ass that I seem to come back to myself, that I can finally think and breathe and talk again.

"About time," I say, but the words come out breathy and hoarse and desperate, and when I look over my shoulder at him, he's looking down at me like I'm nothing, like all my backchat just glances right off him. Then he pushes forward, feeding his cock into me steadily, ruthlessly, forcing me open inch by inch until he's all the way in and his hips are pressing against the raw flesh of my ass, until the velvet of his trousers is scraping against my thighs, lighting up each inch of sore skin every time he moves, until I'm squirming and whimpering and writhing underneath him.

"Yes, struggle for me," Lemaire says, like I've got any choice.

I hiss a few names at him, and he laughs as he grabs hold of my hips and starts to move. He fucks me in fast, sharp strokes, using my ass just as viciously as he beat it, and even though I'm yelping every time he slams into me, there's a groan underneath every cry of pain, a plea underneath every snarl of anger, and if he stopped for a moment I wouldn't be able to keep from begging for more. But he doesn't stop. He doesn't give me even a second of rest. He nails me like he really does think I'm unbreakable, grinding me against the table with each thrust, digging those manicured nails into my hips, driving his cock into me mercilessly deep and hard every time. When he starts to come, he grabs hold of my shoulder, right on the most painful bit, and squeezes hard enough to get me howling in pain all over again, and he's laughing that freezing-cold laugh the whole time, until he's finished, until he's let go of me and pulled out, until he's left me sprawled there over the table like a discarded toy.

"Hold still," he says, and for once I can do as I'm told.

I just lie there trying to catch my breath while he unties me. I know he's done with me, I know this is the end of it, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't hoping for more. But Lemaire just straightens his suit, takes out his wallet, and throws a few notes at me.

"Get dressed and get out."

"Sure," I say, wincing as I stoop to pick up the money. He's been generous, too, especially since strictly speaking I've already been paid. This is more than I ever would have gotten in the old days, if I'd been here freelance, but it’s not even a quarter of what the boss gave me to cover tonight. To me this handful of notes looks like spare change, and I don't know what to make of that. Somewhere along the line I got spoiled, I guess. Somewhere along the line I started thinking more like Miller and less like myself, and I really don't know what to make of that.

 

* * *

 

I wake up with a start, like someone just shouted for me, only I can't hear any shouting. I can't hear anything. It's dark, and I can only just make out a bit of light coming through around the edge of the door, which isn't where it should be. It takes me a minute to remember where I am, whose spare bed I'm face-down on, why it hurts all down my back and legs when I try to turn over. Then I hear a noise in the next room, something between a laugh and a moan, and it's definitely not Vic's voice. Now I'm wide awake.

"And what do you think you're doing?" that voice says, soft and purring.

"What d'you think?" Vic says, with a little chuckle. "You didn't come round just to say hello."

"Oh, I don't know about that, maybe I just fancied some conversation."

"There's only one kind of conversation you're interested in," Vic says, and there's a soft little moan from the other guy, like he's had just the right button pushed. "And you're going to get plenty of it."

"What about your friend next door? These walls are like paper."

"Him?" Vic scoffs. "That squirt was out like a light the minute his head hit the pillow. He won't hear a thing. And besides, I haven't had a piece of you for weeks. If you think I'm waiting another minute you've got another think coming."

There's another one of those moans, longer and louder this time. I'm tempted to bang on the wall and tell them to keep it down, just to wind Vic up, but I don't. I just lay there, listening, trying to picture what this guy must be like to get Vic so interested. Nothing like me, I'll bet. He'll be a blond or a redhead. Young and pale, all soft hair and smooth skin. He'll be dressed up to the nines, dripping with fur and jewellery, and all of it'll have been bought with Vic's money. I remember Ray telling me how his brother nearly bankrupts himself every time this boy bats his eyelashes. I remember Ray rolling his eyes at the thought of it, and me nodding along with him, even as I was thinking how much I'd like to meet the boy who could chisel a guy like Vic. Well, maybe I'm not going to get to meet him, but I'm sure as hell going to enjoy listening to him getting what for. I turn over onto my side, trying not to lean on anything too sore, and I slip a hand to stroke myself as I listen. Right on cue, there's another long, purring moan, like the boy's drowning in pleasure.

"You couldn't wait another minute either, could you?" Vic says, with a rough laugh. There's a loud slap, and another soft little groan. He must be fucking the boy right up against the wall, with how clear I can hear all this.

"Don't flatter yourself," the boy laughs, but he's not convincing anyone.

I can picture him, leaning against the wall, looking back over his shoulder at Vic, with half-closed blue eyes and parted red lips and a pinkish blush spreading all over those pale cheeks. I can picture Vic holding him still, one broad hand on the boy's hip and one on his shoulder, gripping him tight enough to bruise that soft skin. Vic'll still be half-dressed, with just his jacket and tie off, but the boy'll be naked by now, and all those fancy clothes'll be scattered across the floor where he dropped them, like they were worth nothing at all. I can picture the whole lot, and it gets me hot enough that I have to slow my hand down, pace myself, tell myself to keep it slow and steady if I don't want to miss the best bit.

"Anyway, what are you going to buy me for this?" the boy says, and even though the words are half-moaned, he still manages to sound like he's considering giving Vic the brush-off.

"You never stop, do you?"

"Come on…" the boy trails off into a groan, and I can hear them picking up the pace, going at it harder and faster. "What am I going to get, for being so nice to you?"

"Don't push your luck," Vic snaps, but I can hear how close he is.

"Oh, are you broke again? Am I wasting my time?" The boy laughs, and I can just picture his face, the arched brows and the mocking smile. "Maybe I should just leave, and go somewhere they can afford me."

They talk like they're ready to throttle each other, but the whole time I can hear the boy's moans getting louder and breathier, I can hear Vic's voice getting rougher and harsher, I can hear his hips slapping against the boy's ass, relentless and brutal, and the whole lot of it gets me so wound up I can hardly hold off.

"You're not going anywhere," Vic says, and the boy yelps suddenly, like he got his favourite coat caught on a nail. "Not til I'm done with you."

"There's—" the boy starts to say, but he cuts himself off with a ragged groan, desperate and breathless. "There's a watch I want. A new Cartier. Set with—" He gives another yelp, and this one melts into the kind of moan that'd have me coming in seconds if I was the one nailing him. "Set with diamonds," he carries on, and every word is so taut with pleasure, I don't know how Vic's still going. "If you—"

"Alright, fine," Vic interrupts him, growling out the words like he's an inch away from either coming or wringing the boy's neck. "You can have it."

"Of course—" the boy says, breathing hard. "Of course I can." He laughs with delight, and then that laugh swells into a moan loud enough they must have heard him down on the seafront, and that's it, I'm done for. I turn over onto my back, trying not to come on anything except myself, and every bit of skin underneath me is throbbing with pain, but I don't care. I screw my eyes shut, arching my back, gritting my teeth to keep from hissing in pain when the sheet scrapes against my skin, until I'm done and sagging back down onto the bed, too tired to care anymore how much it hurts.

It's quiet now, so I guess I did miss the best bit after all. It's a shame, but maybe if I hang around Vic long enough, if I volunteer for enough jobs like this, maybe I'll get the chance to do a bit more than eavesdrop. Maybe if I play my cards right, I could get myself caught in the crossfire.

 

* * *

 

I step off the train gingerly, like I'm a returning convalescent who's not quite back at full strength, trying not to set off any of the twinges in my back or legs as I climb down the steps. Miller's standing there, wearing one of those calm smiles that looks like the sun on a still lake, and when I walk over to him he puts his hand on my shoulder firm enough to make me flinch.

"Did you overwork yourself?" he says, stroking his thumb over the edge of my collar.

"I always put my back into it, you know that." I grin at him, and as we set off down the platform I nod toward the bag in my hand. "I don't suppose you fancy carrying this, do you? On account of me having been injured in the line of duty."

Miller just looks at me, and that smile gets a little sharper and a little frostier, and I can't help laughing.

"No, I don't reckon you do, do you?"

Miller gives a quiet little chuckle, and then he stops and puts a hand on my arm. "Look," he says, pointing toward the main entrance. "Apparently I'm not the only one who's been looking forward to you coming home."

I follow his gaze over to the other side of the lobby, and it lands on a kid with a scuffed leather jacket and a cocky smile on his lips, leaning against the wall with his thumbs hooked through his belt-loops, glancing back and forth across the crowd milling by him, like he's waiting for one particular customer to come strolling by.

"Oh." I say, trying to figure out what to think of that. "How long's he been there?"

"A couple of hours." Miller says, with just a touch of contempt. "He asked around to see when you'd be getting back, but he wasn't quite able to find out the time or the platform. Tommy's certainly persistent, but his information-gathering skills leave a little to be desired."

"Oh." I say again, and that must be a stupid thing to say, because Miller chuckles like I've made a fool of myself.

"Come along," he says, taking me by the arm and leading me toward the kid. "Since he's waiting for you, the least you can do is say hello."

"Hey!" Tommy shouts, as soon as he sees us. His voice cuts through the hum of the crowd like a gunshot. "Hey, you're back!"

"Quiet down," I say, as he runs up to us.

"Sure," he says, grabbing the bag out of my hand.

"What are you—" I start to say, but before I can get the words out he's hoisted the bag onto his shoulder and started talking over the top of me.

"I'm glad you're back! I've been doing jobs all weekend for the guys, running errands, just kid stuff, you know, and I kept thinking about what you said in the car, and I was thinking now that you're back, when you've got some spare time, you know, in between the jobs I'm doing for Davis, sort of after hours, you could show me the ropes and if you want we could—"

"Quiet." I snap, and he looks up at me like I've just slapped his face. "I said keep it down, and I meant it."

"Sure," he says, nodding, grinning up at me. "Sure thing, Johnny."

When I look at Miller, he's smiling like he's watching a puppet show, and me and Tommy are the marionettes dancing around to his tune.

"Now," the golden boy says, putting his arm around me, "why don't you let me take you out, to celebrate a job well done?" Then he glances over at Tommy, and gives a soft little laugh. "You can even bring your friend along, if you like."

The kid looks up at me, and gives me a grin that makes me feel like I'm looking into a weird kind of mirror, one that stretches back about five or six years and makes me feel like somehow I got old when I wasn't looking. Then he grabs hold of the sleeve of my jacket and says "Yeah, let me come along!" so loud it makes me wince, and before I know what I'm saying, I'm barking at him to simmer down and fighting the urge to give him a clip round the ear, just to see if sticks.

"Alright, fine," I say, shaking my head. "But you start making a racket again and I'll throw you out myself, understand?"

"Sure thing, Johnny," the kid says again. "Sure thing!" Then he beams up at me like I've made his day, like there's nothing he wants more than to tag along with me and the golden boy. I'm not sure what to make of that.

I'm not sure what to make of that at all.


End file.
